Mortality Rate
by Doctor Strangelove
Summary: After stopping New York from blowing up, the heroes are faced with an even more terrifying braindevouring menace: zombies. [SylarMohinder, PeterClaire, MattTed]
1. Part 1

"Mortality Rate"  
Part 1

* * *

Audrey Hanson's night was very quickly going from bad to the worst night of her life. Ted Sprague had finally been taken into custody only to be killed in a gruesome car wreck, she had the ever-growing suspicion that Sylar had something to do with the carnage surrounding her, and _something_ had just exploded in the sky.

She cursed her luck under her breath and rubbed her arms frantically in an attempt to warm herself up. The press and public were being held at bay by police barricades surrounding the road, leaving Audrey all alone with the overturned truck and Ted's corpse. The wind had all but stopped, and ever since the recent explosion in the air the night had taken an eerie quietness. Audrey began to wish that she had insisted someone stay with her to wait for the ambulance when she heard a crunching sound come from the truck.

_Damnit, what now?_ She thought, drawing her gun from its holster. Audrey didn't call out, preferring to keep the upper hand on whatever was making that noise. If some reporter had tried to sneak down to get a better look at the wreckage, they were soon going to be in for a world of- WHAM!

A flash of searing pain roared through Audrey as she felt someone's hand grip the back of her neck and thrust her face into the side of the truck. The sudden shock of the attack caused her to drop her firearm and it skittered across the dark pavement, out of her desperate reach. Blood began to flow down Audrey's face, and she attempted to blink it out of her eyes as she turned to face her assailant.

Audrey's vision was blurred from the trauma to her head and she still had hot, wet blood dripping into her eyes, but she was able to discern that her attacker was a man. As soon as she was facing him however, the man gripped Audrey's neck with his other hand as well and forced the detective to the ground.

His knees jabbed into her ribcage, knocking the wing out of Audrey as she struggled to fight back. She knew it was a losing battle, breathless from the attack deeply groggy from the ever-increasing loss of blood. Sharp fingernails dug into the fresh wound on Audrey's head, and she could feel her skin being scraped away.

Audrey's eyes rolled back and curiously peered into the wrecked truck behind her. As the last burning breathes escaped her body and her assailant eagerly clawed at her scalp, Audrey marveled at the last thought to go through her mind.

_Where's the body?_

* * *

Mohinder Suresh's night was troubling, to say the least. After so much violence and bloodshed he didn't if he'd be able to handle any more catastrophe. Molly and himself had both nearly been killed. The telepath and the phasing man had been rushed away to the hospital, and neither looked promising. Lord knows what had become of the Petrelli brothers. And Sylar…

Was missing.

His breathing turning into quick panting breaths, Mohinder whipped his head around frantically looking for Sylar's body, but it was nowhere to be found. The sound of his pounding heart ringing in his ears, Mohinder began to realize what this meant.

Sylar was still alive.

_This can't be right._ Mohinder's thoughts were racing through his brain. _Hiro stabbed him. I saw him… He couldn't have survived that, could he? _Mohinder remembered that Sylar had certainly survived seemingly worse injuries, and he shuddered and scolded himself for the faint glimmer of relief that he felt. _Sylar is not Zane. Zane was kind, and sweet, and… Sylar murdered my father and nearly killed me as well. No matter what I thought about Zane, the man that was here tonight was a monster that needed to be put down. But if he wasn't… _

_Molly!_

A triumphant grin spread across Mohinder's face as he realized how to deal with this troublesome issue. Molly would be able to find Sylar, wherever he was. And if Hiro had not been able to put down Sylar for good, Mohinder was prepared to do it himself. No matter how much it would pain him to do so.

"Molly! Molly!" Mohinder called out for the little girl, desperate to finally get some feeling of closure from the twisted bond he shared with Sylar. "Molly!"

"She's gone," Mohinder turned to face the voice that had answered him, a voice belonging to Bennet. He and his daughter Claire, still staring up at the sky in a state of shock, were the only people left with Mohinder in Kirby Plaza. "She rode with Officer Parkman to the hospital."

"He was her hero," Mohinder mumbled, cursing himself for not noticing Sylar's disappearance earlier.

"What did you need her for?"

A grim expression flashed across Mohinder's delicate features, "Sylar's gone."

Bennet gave no outward sign that he had heard the Indian doctor's words. He merely glanced over Mohinder's shoulders at were Sylar had been impaled and nodded gravely. It was almost as he hadn't expected the man to remain dead at all. "I don't think Molly will be necessary."

A sudden chilled shuddered through Mohinder as he slowly turned to face the pavement where mere moments ago Sylar's corpse had lain. It was then that Mohinder realized he had overlooked a very vital clue to Sylar's whereabouts. Starting where the serial killer's body had been, a messy trail of crimson blood shone in the moonlight and led a path to a nearby manhole cover. Mohinder had a very good idea where Sylar had gone.

Kneeling next to the manhole cover, not caring that his trousers were getting stained with Sylar's blood, Mohinder made a decision. He nodded gravely, and without even turning to face Bennet, lightly whispered out a single command.

"Give me your gun."

* * *

Claire Bennet's night was becoming more than she handle. What seemed like just a few hours ago, she had commented that the universe couldn't be lame enough to make her shoot Peter. But this… Peter and Nathan were gone. They'd flown right up into the air and…

She had felt the heat from the explosion on her face. A tingling warmth had crawled over her as the only man that had ever made her feel normal was blown into a million burning pieces.

_But maybe… _Her heartbroken mind began to fiendishly grasp at any hope she could muster. _Ted wasn't hurt when he blew up the house. Maybe Peter will be okay. But the fall. He's so high up._

She didn't know what else to do but stand stricken and hope. People flurried around her; her near-death companions were rushed away to hospitals and her father was calling out her name, but Claire couldn't move. It was as if her brain had forgotten how to work her muscles. She couldn't tear her eyes away from darkening night sky.

Hopelessness washed over, drowning out any possibility that she might make it through the night's events unscathed. He was really gone. He was gone, far, far away from her, and he was not coming. And she never even said goodbye.

Claire's lip trembled as she felt hot tears pouring over her face yet again, and she weakly called out the only thing she was able to say,

"Peter."

* * *

Sunday Montgomery's night was just beginning. It had begun with him getting shot in the back of the head. His boss, a local gangster, had come to the conclusion that he would no longer be needing any services that Sunday supplied, so he ended their business agreement the best way he knew how.

His night had continued with his lifeless body being dumped into the nearest sewer grate, where he had been floating facedown in toxic sludge for untold hours. After what seemed to be an eternity, a ringing began to echo through Sunday's ears, impossibly loud and hurling his head into unspeakable agony.

His eyes fluttered open, blindly staring at the cold pavement above his head. Sunday was awake. Confused. And hungry.

_Up. Up._ The words filled his head, but his body didn't respond right away. Slowly he reached out, pushing himself out of the waste he had been floating in, and completely oblivious to the blood and ooze that were pouring out of the back of his head. _Up. _Numb and bloated fingers grasped the rungs of the ladder on the wall, and he attempted to pull himself upward. He was starving, and there would surely be food on the surface.

The bones of his hands bent and then cracked as he pushed with all his might on the manhole cover above him, but Sunday didn't stop to notice. Food was up there. Food to fill the deep and howling craving in his stomach. Food to make him happy. His efforts were rewarded as the manhole cover finally moved away, allowing him access to the surface.

Figures were standing several yards from the hole Sunday emerged from. Far away and large group. Not good for getting food. But nearby was something on the ground. Something large, alone, and bleeding. That would do nicely.

* * *

D.L. Hawkins's night was going to be the last one he spent alive. This dawned on him as he was being rushed to a hospital and his wife was gripping his hand will all her might. The sharp pain emanating from his hand made D.L. pretty sure that Niki had broken most of his fingers, but it didn't really matter to him anymore. He was just grateful she was there.

He could feel the life slowly fading out of him, every breath a struggle. Niki was whispering something into his ear, but he couldn't quite make it out. Micah was holding onto his other hand, his grasp not quite as strong as his mother's, and fighting to hold back his tears. D.L. wanted to reassure his son, tell him it was okay to cry, but he couldn't find the strength to form the words. D.L. weakly gripped his son's hand back, hoping his message got across.

This was not how he had imagined his death would arrive. D.L. had always pictured that he would go out in a moment of glory, guns blazing. Not here, slowly slipping away inside an ambulance that would never reach the emergency room in time. Part of him was grateful that at least he had his family beside him, that they knew he loved them, and that, thanks to what went down with Linderman, they would be taken care of after he was gone.

A tiny smile grew on D.L.'s face as he exhaled for the final time and felt the last lingering threads of life escape his body. He looked upon his wife and son for what he thought would be the last time, completely unaware that he would be seeing his family again very, very soon.

* * *

Sylar's night was not going at all how he expected. He was supposed to stop Peter Petrelli from exploding, but if the fireworks show in the sky was any indication, he had failed. He was supposed to be the hero, but he had gotten impaled by the little Japanese man. Mohinder was supposed to help him, save him, join him, but he had just left Sylar alone to die.

And now… Sylar had gone a little groggy since being stabbed, but he was vaguely aware that he was no longer lying on the ground of Kirby Plaza. He could hear someone's footsteps thundering in his ear as they splashed through some liquid. Sylar's body was wet, and as consciousness began to return to him he realized he was being dragged along by his arm. If the smell around him was any indication, he and his mystery captor were in the sewer.

"Sylar."

At the sound of his name, all of Sylar's senses suddenly returned to him. Fully alert, he leaned up to get a look at the familiar man calling out for him.

"Mohinder."

Whoever has been dragging him along suddenly dropped Sylar's arm and faced the geneticist. A low gurgling noise escaped the creature's throat, and with a shocking burst of speed he charged Mohinder.

Sylar leapt to his feet as he heard Mohinder cry out in pain. This grotesque being that had pulled Sylar into the depths of the sewer had his hands wrapped tightly around Mohinder's neck, forcing the scientist down to the ground. Without even having time to form a plan, Sylar reached out his hand and snapped the assailant's neck fully around. To Sylar's surprise, this didn't stop the man. Cold, milky eyes still stared blindly in Sylar's direction, and a deep howling sound was echoing in the dank sewer.

A thunderous roar blared throughout the tunnel as the monstrosity's head exploded; Sylar so taken aback in shock that he barely had time to stop the bullet from Mohinder's gun before it took his face off as well. The creature dropped to the ground, body still twitching and leaking from every hole, as Sylar moved in the blink of an eye to Mohinder's side.

The Indian man dropped his gun and gripped onto Sylar's shoulder for support. The two men held onto each other, both badly battered and their blood mingling into a pool at their feet. Mohinder had deep gashes in his neck, and his cold, clammy composition gave the appearance that he might collapse at any moment. Sylar struggled to hold injured man up, his own wounds hampering his attempt.

Mohinder's eyes met Sylar's, an odd mix of awe, gratitude, and horror. This was the first time they'd been this close since… Mohinder shook the thought off and returned his gaze to the macabre scene at his feet. The man, if indeed he could be called that, looked as if he should have died well before their encounter. _Doesn't matter, _Mohinder calmed himself, _He's dead now._

Sylar could not break his gaze away from Mohinder, grateful that the other man had not yet broken away from him. As he stared at the shell-shocked man in front of him, he heard himself voicing the question he knew they were both thinking, "What is that thing?"

Unable to look away from the broken corpse in front of him, Mohinder found himself whispering in a small, timid voice he hadn't used since he was a child, "I don't know."

Sylar nodded grimly and held tighter onto Mohinder, afraid that either of them could fall apart at any moment. Confusion swept over Sylar as he felt an unfamiliar feeling creep inside him. Realization dawned on him as he recognized that for the first time several months, the cold hand of fear had grabbed hold of him.

* * *

Matt Parkman's night was over. He had quickly whisked away to a hospital and given enough anesthesia to knock him out for hours. While the doctors worked on removing the bullets from his abdomen, and he remained in a peaceful state of unconsciousness, Matt was lucky enough to miss out on most of the horror sweeping New York City that night. He was fortunate enough to sleep through a good deal of the destruction and bloodshed terrorizing even the very hospital he lay in.

Unfortunately, while Matt's luck had allowed him to miss out on the first night of rampant carnage sweeping through the city, he had several more fear-filled nights ahead of him.

The first rays of dawn beginning to creep through his window, Matt's eyes slowly opened as he regained consciousness. Thanks to the morphine he wasn't in terrible pain, and he vaguely thought that he could smell something burning in the distance. His calm quickly left him as he realized he wasn't alone in his hospital room.

"I need… your help." A deep voice panted at him. Matt's eyes widened in shock as the surveyed the figure in front of him. It appeared to be a human being, but its skin was bruised and its clothes were bloodstained. Blood was dripping from the person's forehead and their scalp was bulging to one side, as if it had just been haphazardly placed on the person's head by their ghoulish creator. Matt's breathing began to become more frantic as a sense of recognition and foreboding slowly filled him.

"Ted?"


	2. Part 2

Peter Petrelli didn't know how he had managed to survive. He had felt his skin turn into fire, his bones snapped in half at the impossible speed he was flying, and his brother crumble to ash in his arms. One stolen gift failed him as Peter found himself unable to fly, but thanks to another his body healed every wound he had sustained.

As bruises vanished and broken bones realigned themselves, Peter shakily pulled himself to his feet and addressed his surroundings. Buildings. Concrete. Pavement. Steel. It had worked. Peter had exploded, but New York City was still standing. A hesitant smile crept across Peter's gentle features, quickly vanishing when he remember the price he'd paid to save the people of New York.

"Nathan. Oh god."

Throwing out his hands to catch himself, Peter fell to the ground unable to stand as waves of guilt washed over him. Nausea welled up inside the dark-haired man, and helpless to stop the sickness building up inside him stomach, Peter expelled the contents of the light dinner he had had that evening on the cold concrete. The darkened alley that Peter had landed in muffled the sounds of his dry heaving and quiet sobbing. The streets surrounding him were empty, but even if people had been passing by Peter's hushed breakdown would have gone unnoticed.

"No," he whispered to himself, after what seemed like an eternity on the ground. _Focus on the good we did. What we accomplished. Who we saved._

Rising to his feet, Peter brushed the residue from his mouth and the tears from his eyes. He was no longer shaking, instead standing strong and determined. _I need to find Mom. I need to find the people that Nathan and I saved. The people I love. I need to find…_

"Claire."

Peter's thoughts were stilled as he remembered the look on Claire's face before Nathan showed up. The tears running down her soft face as he told her to shoot him. _She's still alive. Nathan's gone, but Claire… I still have her._

"I need to find Claire."

Newfound determination filling him, Peter left the alleyway, thoughts of reuniting with Claire the only thing on his mind

* * *

Micah Sanders didn't know why, but he needed to see his father again. He was old enough to understand life and dead, and he was fully aware that his father had died on the ambulance ride to the hospital. He had felt the five strong fingers that used to tuck him into bed every night go limp in his grasp. The light in D.L.'s eyes had faded away, and as the paramedic shut his eyes Micah and his mother had held one another sobbing.

There was absolutely no doubt in Micah's mind that his dad was dead, but the moment the ambulance arrived at the hospital D.L.'s body was whisked away to the morgue, not giving Micah or Niki opportunity for one final goodbye. So Micah was determined to see his father one last time.

While his mother filled out paperwork for cold impersonal doctors, Micah quietly snuck away to wander the frigid hallways of the hospital. Doctors and nurses rushed passed him, too busy dealing with the sudden influx of patients to pay any mind to a little boy, a fact that Micah quietly thanked any higher power that might be listening for. Unfortunately the hospital lacked a handy directory such as the ones found in shopping malls, so he could not rely on a map to conveniently point out the way to the morgue. Forced to find his father's body with only his wits aiding him, Micah simply searched for the area that everyone else seemed to be avoiding; rooms filled with cooling corpses are not known for their popularity.

A dimly lit, out of the way corridor was his final destination, a sudden chill running down Micah's spine as he found himself in secluded corner of the hospital with only the morgue and a broom closet in front of him. Steeling his nerves, he closed the distance between himself and the morgue and found that the doors were sealed with an electronic lock meant to deter any unauthorized personnel from entering. Micah couldn't imagine who would want to steal a dead body, but he quickly made short work of the lock, granting himself entrance to somber chamber where his father lay resting somewhere inside.

A bevy of silent steel drawers and covered bodies greet Micah as he crept inside, and the little boy berated himself for not realizing beforehand that this is how a morgue would obviously be laid out. Of course there wouldn't be a flashing arrow pointing to his father; he would have to go searching for him. Wandering further into the depths of room, Micah shuddered at the surprising chill that surrounded him, and he wondered if the doctors would have had enough time to put his father into one of the drawers.

Something clattered to the floor behind Micah, destroying the little boy's hopes of seeing his father one last time as he realized that he had been caught. His mother would most likely yell at him for wondering off, but he hoped she would understand his reasoning. He probably wouldn't get into too much trouble. As he prepared himself to be escorted back to a waiting area by an impatient doctor, a voice suddenly called out, breaking the eerie silence of the morgue.

"Micah."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop another ten degrees, and Micah found himself unable to move at the sound of his name. Tears were leaking from his eyes, and he heard his own voice, one word escaping his trembling lips, "Dad."

The hope in Micah's heart died as he slowly turned around. His father was indeed standing before him at the other end of the morgue; he was naked with his eyes a milky white, and a dark liquid was seeping out of holes in his chest. He appeared to be weak on his feet, and he called out again in an almost inhuman bark, "Micah."

Micah tried to scream, but no sound came from his tiny mouth. Without thinking he backed up against the steel drawers behind him, as if they would provide protection from whatever abomination was standing before him. A warm stream of urine ran down his leg, realization dawning on him that there was a tone in his father's voice when he called out for his son that Micah had never heard before: Hunger.

An inhuman snarl erupted for D.L.'s throat as he rushed toward his son. Micah found himself unable to react, and he merely pushed himself harder against the drawers. A cloud crash echoed through the morgue as D.L. ran into another table, sending him to the floor and knocking a bloated corpse down after him. One arm reached out to grasp at Micah, but found itself several inches short. The small boy closed his eyes in terror, praying he was just having a bad dream, as what had been his father groaned and tried to shove the dead body off of itself.

The drawers behind Micah suddenly began to rattle wildly, loud clangs and moans echoing throughout the formerly still morgue. The ghastly noises surrounding him spurred Micah to action, and he ran for the door, avoiding his father and not noticing that the bodies on other tables were also beginning to stir. Slamming the doors behind him, Micah found himself with enough clarity to use his abilities and lock the growling creatures inside.

Panic still reining his actions, Micah found that his childhood instincts were screaming out for him to hide. The broom closet seemed the best choice Micah decided as he flung open the door and immersed himself in comforting darkness. There were no monsters here, only a safe blackness that would effectively hide him from anything going bump on this night. He would simply wait it out. A doctor, a nurse, his mother, someone would eventually come looking for him and they would find that he-

Micah didn't even get the chance to scream as his father's strong decaying arms phased through the door and wrapped around Micah, pulling his son away from the safety of the closet and into a dark abyss.

* * *

Mohinder Suresh didn't know why he had lied. The words just came naturally to his lips when Bennet had asked if he found Sylar. He had said no, not even mentioning the altercation in the sewer, and then left Bennet and his daughter to their own devices as he went home to his apartment, where he had instructed Sylar to meet him. When Mohinder arrived home, he found Sylar sprawled out on the couch, and he began the grueling process of treating the other man's wounds. 

Sylar, for his part, did not question why Mohinder had let him live. He merely assumed that the Indian man felt the same connection between them that Sylar did, the gentle way he dealt with Sylar's injuries seemed to prove him right.

"You're bleeding," he whispered, noticing the blood caked around Mohinder's collar.

"It's nothing serious," Mohinder answered as he finished sewing up the last of the gashes in Sylar's abdomen. Leaving Sylar's side, he walked into the kitchen to fetch some medication.

Neither man spoke, preferring instead to exist in a pained silence. Questions and accusations were springing to both of their minds: Why were they here together, and how was it possible that they were both still alive after all they'd been through? Mohinder wasn't comfortable with how comfortable he felt having Sylar in his home, so he made a concentrated effort to break the fragile silence, "We should have that thing in the sewer with us."

Mohinder's calm, steady heartbeat told Sylar he wasn't joking, which just confused him all the more, "It tried to kill."

"I've got you here," was Mohinder's icy response. When Sylar made no indication that he was going to respond, Mohinder shook his head. "It was something different. Something new. I don't think that was just someone with an ability."

"It looked like a zombie," Sylar smirked as Mohinder gave him a handful of pills.

"These are for the pain," Mohinder said, swallowing a few himself, "and I'd rule out that suggestion as being a creature of fiction, but I did just mention superpowered individuals without a second thought. Maybe it's possible. Are the two really so different?"

"Yes."

Mohinder sighed and rubbed his temples, "Probably. I don't know how many brain-stealing entities I can deal with in one night."

Sylar gave no reaction to Mohinder's jab. "I can go get the body if you really want to study it."

A humorless smile crossed Mohinder's lips. Was Sylar actually attempting to show some kindness? This truly was a bizarre night. "No, that won't be necessary."

Sylar smiled, the first time Mohinder had seen him do so. It was unthreatening, so friendly, so very much like Zane had been. Mohinder shuddered as memories of their road trip resurfaced, and he tried to shake off unwelcome feelings of friendship and longing that were suddenly flowing through him. This was the man that killed his father among many others, and no act of kindness, not even saving Mohinder's life, would make him forget that fact. And yet, hadn't Sylar called him in a moment of weakness? Did he really deserve a second chance?

In an effort to distract himself, Mohinder walked across the room to gaze out his window at the night sky. It would be dawn in a few hours, and Mohinder desperately needed sleep. But he also needed something to occupy his time when he awoke, and his recent encounter in the sewers of New York had sparked Mohinder's interest.

"On second thought, that might be a good idea." Mohinder turned around, a dark glimmer in his eyes. "Can you retrieve it without being noticed?"

Sylar nodded, and before Mohinder could say anything else, he was out the door. Mohinder turned back towards the window, the headache that had been troubling him since he had fought with whatever that creature was began to throb even louder in his head. Perhaps there was good reason to keep Sylar alive after all.

* * *

Angela Petrelli didn't know whether she would grow through with her plan to shoot herself, or if she'd end up drinking herself to death first. All the good glasses were now broken shards on the floor, the result of an uncharacteristic and momentary bout of rage, so she had taken to drinking her late husband's scotch directly from the bottle. Morose thoughts raced through her now calm brain as she tenderly caressed the ivory handle of the pistol in her lap.

The explosion had happened. In the air. She knew that Peter didn't have the strength or ingenuity to fly himself far above New York before he exploded, so that only left one possibility. Nathan had flown his brother, which most likely meant that her oldest son was now a flurry of ashes raining down upon the city. This thought was upsetting, of course, but it was not the reason she had gone into her husband's desk drawer and pulled out a gun that had never been fired.

Nakamura had called her shortly after the explosion, his intel having learned that both Thompson and Linderman were now dead. Her granddaughter was apparently still alive, but there was no word about Peter. Nakamura's connections had also revealed another, more unsettling, discovery in the sewers beneath Kirby Plaza, and that was reason that Angela Petrelli had decided to end her life.

She'd had a great deal to drink in the last hour since her phone call with Nakamura, so she did not hear Peter when he came storming through the front door of the Petrelli mansion. Angela didn't respond to his calls of "Mother!" and he was forced to wander the rooms until he discovered her in his father's study.

"Mom?" He whispered, stunned to find her in such a condition. "What's going on?"

"Is Nathan dead?" Peter didn't answer, but he didn't need to. "That's what I thought. You know Charles said something like this might happen. We dismissed it, just like we did everything he ever said." She raised the bottle of scotch to the ceiling, as if in toast. "Here's to you, old friend. I'll be seeing you soon."

"Mom!" Peter cried out again, panic growing in his voice as he saw the gun in his mother's lap.

A sudden look of clarity came over Angela's face as she looked her son directly in the eye. "You've just changed the world, my boy, and not for the better. All my years of planning have turned out for naught. Everything I've worked for is about to be no more. I hope you have the strength to survive it. I don't know what's going to happen to this world, Peter, and I'm sorry," No tears fell from Angela's eyes as she determinedly raised the pistol to her temple, "but I don't intend to find out."

* * *

Niki Sanders didn't know where her son was, and it scared the hell out of her. She had been signing forms for a doctor, and when she turned to ask Micah if he was hungry, he wasn't there. 

Mere moments ago she had wanted nothing more than to give in to the exhaustion sweeping through her body, but Niki suddenly found strength coursing through her as her legs swiftly carried her through the corridors of the hospital. She cried out her son's name until her voice went hoarse and continued to yell for him, but no one responded. She may as well have been invisible to the doctors, nurses, and patients of the hospital as they all seemed to be consumed with the sudden and steady stream of new arrivals to the emergency ward. A sudden scream stopped Niki dead in her tracks, and she knew in her heart that that was where her Micah was.

Hurriedly following the pained howls, Niki found herself on the hallway that contained the morgue and face to face with D.L. Her husband was standing naked and splattered with blood in front of her, holding what looked like an arm in one hand and staring at her with glazed over eyes. On the ground next to him was a young nurse, missing the arm that D.L. held in his clutches, and from the blank stare on her face, Niki had arrived too late to save her.

D.L. roared and charged at Niki, her reflexes kicking in as she reached out an arm and knocked him to the floor. He was quickly on his feet again, so Niki wretched the arm from his hands and bashed him in the side of his head with it. The jagged bone sticking out of the end of the nurse's arm broke through the skin and lodged itself inside D.L.'s head. The momentum from Niki's attack knocked her late husband into a wall, and that, coupled with the bone piercing his brain, was enough to take him out of commission. D.L. gave one final weak gurgle before sliding down to the floor, leaving a trail of crimson blood on the wall.

Niki had no time to process what had just happened to her because she noticed a small figure curled up in the corner. In the blink of an eye, Niki had crossed the corridor and lifted her son into her arms. Micah was lighter than he should've been and had a large portion of his scalp missing, revealing his genius brain the world. Without warning, his eyes snapped open, and Micah glared at his mother with the same milky white eyes that his father had.

The boy snarled softly and reached out toward his mother's throat. Instinct overcoming her, Niki threw Micah from her arms and he fell headfirst into the steel door of the morgue. The horror of what she had just done filling her, Niki dropped to her knees and gripped Micah. The rest of his head had collapsed from the impact with the door, and he gave no indication that he was going to wake up again.

Collapsing in hysterical sobs, Niki tightly grasped the broken body of her son to her chest, stroking his hair as she whispered his name over and over again. She was so caught up in her grief that she didn't even notice that the nurse's corpse had risen to its feet. The tears suddenly stopped falling from Niki's face, and she gingerly laid Micah's body on the ground. With steely determination, she rose to her feet and gripped the nurse by the throat, throwing the body down. Without a second thought she lifted up her foot, and with all of her strength brought it down onto the nurse's head, crushing the bones of its skull and smashing the brain.

She surveyed the carnage around her, and solemnly left the corridor, ripping the nurse's arm out of D.L.'s head as she went. Niki had collapsed into a sobbing madness that she may never come out of, but Jessica knew exactly what she needed to do.

* * *

Claire Bennet didn't know what her father expected to find at the Petrelli mansion. They had nowhere else to stay, and no other means of getting out of New York that night, so he decided it was there only choice. If Angela Petrelli were still there, she wouldn't refuse shelter to her only granddaughter. Probably.

The mansion appeared to be deserted, and Claire suddenly found herself developing a little hope. If Angela wasn't here, and it appeared that not only was she missing but the security people as well, then there was no one to stop Claire and her father from spending the night. Claire smiled to herself as she reached a hand into her pocket, thankfully rubbing the house key that Peter had given her.

"It doesn't appear that anyone's home. You go in the front, and I'll check around back." Claire's father left her to go snoop around the backyard as she unlocked the front door of the darkened house.

She wandered into the foyer and didn't see any lights on in the house. Calling out didn't seem like a smart idea, just in case someone was home that didn't want her around. Claire quietly closed the door when she heard someone call out to her.

"Claire!"

Her head snapped towards the staircase, a gigantic grin forming on her face when she Peter at the top of the stairs.

"Peter!"

She raced towards the staircase as he began running down it, and the two met in the middle. As she threw her arms around him in a tight embrace, Claire found tears of joy rushing down her face. He was really alive. She didn't have much time to think about this miraculous turn of events as Peter suddenly covered her mouth with his. The kiss was deep and powerful, and could not be mistaken for just a familial display of affection. To her surprise, Claire found that she was kissing Peter back with just as much ferocity.

They didn't stop to think about their actions, or anything else that had happened. In that single instance, all the pain, heartbreak, and loss of the rest of the night had faded away, and for a few shining moments, they knew peace.

* * *

Matt Parkman didn't know how to react to the man standing in front of him. During the journey to stop the Walker System in New York City, Matt had bonded intimately with his traveling companion, Ted Sprague. What had began as frantic groping in darkened hotel rooms had developed into something else. He had formed a connection with Ted that rivaled the one he had with his own wife.

But this was not the same man standing before him.

Ignoring the bloodstains and bruises, this man was much paler than Ted had been. His eyes were darker and much more frantic. And what was wrong with his head?

Careful not to strain himself too much, Matt stood up from is hospital bed to get a closer look. "What happened to you?"

A confused look swept Ted's face, as if he weren't sure exactly what did happen to him. His voice came out strained and shaky, "I was… The FBI had me. They were taking me away. The truck… we were attacked.

Matt reached out a hand and traced a finger along the deep gash in Ted's forehead. It was as if someone had completely removed the top of his head and placed it back on. "Sylar."

Ted pushed his scalp up slightly, revealing a throbbing brain underneath. He choked back a sob, but whispered in barely-audible voice, "I think I'm dead."

Frantically grabbing Ted's wrist, Matt desperately searched for a pulse and dropped the hand in disbelief when he didn't find one. "How?"

"I was attacked. He reached out a finger, and I could feel him digging into my head. I woke up a little while later. I couldn't think, couldn't understand anything that was going on." Ted's dark eyes locked with Matt's. "The top of my head was missing."

A thought suddenly crossed Matt's mind, "Sylar's victims always had their brains missing, but you've still got yours."

Not breaking eye contact, Ted slowly shook his head. "Not my brain."

The implications of that sentence dawned on Matt, and he had to grasp onto Ted's shoulder to remain standing. "Ted, what are you saying?"

A frown appeared on Ted's face, reminding Matt of the man he'd known before this startling development. "I'm saying someone killed me, and then later on I woke up, ripped the brain out of some cop's skull, and put it into my own."

"Audrey," Matt moaned. He stumbled across the room to the trashcan, and Ted heard retching sounds coming from that corner.

"Yeah. I did that too."

Matt rose to his knees and wiped his mouth, "How did you get here?"

"The top of my head wasn't attached, Parkman. Hospital seemed like the natural destination. By the time I got here, things were already going to hell. I saw your name on list of patients and decided I'd come find you. Protect you."

Standing on his feet, Matt finally noticed that the furniture of his hospital room had been placed against the door, creating a makeshift barrier. "Protect me from what?"

Ted smirked, "All the other dead people."

Crossing the room to face Ted, Matt asked, "There are more people like you?"

A headshake was Ted's response. "No. Admittedly when I first woke up, I felt the urge to find a brain of my own by any means necessary, but since then? I haven't had the urge to go around eating people."

A look of horror crossed Matt's face as he began to realize what Ted was saying. "You mean…?"

"This hospital we're in? It's overrun with zombies."


End file.
